Ivor's Quest: MAKE THEM SUFFER.

In the days when hope had not yet fully withered, Ivor stood side by side with his companion, their blades dripping with the lifeblood of the Tumor of the World. At last, as the ancient evil weakened, collapsing into the yawning chasm of its own undoing, Ivor felt a rush of victory. He turned to his companion, battered and bloodied but alive, sharing a smile—the first they’d managed in months. It was over. They had won.

But then, a force, cold as the dead and strong as a vise, shot up from the depths below, wrapping around Ivor’s ankle with tendrils of shadow. In a single sickening pull, it yanked him downward, into the collapsing void. He tried to claw at the ground, to scream, but no sound escaped his throat. All he could see was his companion running away, abandoning him.

In the deep dark, Ivor would endure days or years of suffering, time no longer having meaning for him. Unspeaking tortured had been done to his mind, body and soul, and at the end of it all, only hatred survived in his tarnished heart.

When he rose from the depths, clawing his way back to the world above, he was no longer the man he had once been. The Tumor’s influence had changed him, twisted him into something more sinister, something born of darkness and pain. His memories of humanity were mere ghosts, lingering in his mind only to serve as reminders of his lost life, of what had been stolen from him. He had a single purpose now, a single name that burned in the hollowed, hate-filled shell of his mind. He would find them. And they would suffer.

Standing before Ivor's grave, you knelt, setting the flowers at its base. The ground was cold beneath your knees, damp with dew and the remnants of night. Then, something stirred. A figure loomed in the mist, taking shape in the darkness. It was twisted, monstrous, its outline familiar yet foreign.

It was Ivor.

“You left me.” His voice was a rasp, a sound that seemed to scrape against the silence, twisted by anger and agony. “You RAN.”